Unkindness
by johnsarmylady
Summary: John was keen to know more about the man he had moved in with two months ago, because there was something about Sherlock that evaded him. When he found out exactly what it was, he promised to do everything in his power to help. A friends-to-lovers AU.
1. A Strange Turn of Events

They had been flatmates for little more than two months, yet still John Watson had the distinct impression that he was missing something important.

Sherlock Holmes, scientist, self-proclaimed Consulting Detective and self-confessed sociopath was an enigma. Like a will o' the wisp he would flit around crime scenes, seeing far more than anyone else, his abrasive tones as he spewed forth his deductions creating an almost physical barrier between himself and all others. But surprisingly, he had let John into his life.

Originally, he had been looking for someone to share the cost of the rooms in Baker Street, and John had needed cheap accommodation, mainly due to the fact that the run down block of flats he was currently staying in were due to be demolished, they had been cheap because they had been in an appalling condition, but they were fast becoming dangerously unstable.

John smiled a little at that – dangerously unstable could easily describe his new friend, only the blond ex-army doctor didn't find him so. Instead he relished the excitement and adventure as they chased through London, from its brightly exotic heart to its depressingly dark and fetid underbelly, no area was off limits.

The object of his musings was currently stalking the corridors of St Bart's hospital, trying to prove his latest theory on some poor unsuspecting dead body, while flattering pathologist Molly Hooper into letting him use the mortuary equipment and laboratories. He would be gone for some time, giving John the perfect opportunity to try to solve this puzzle.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders as if preparing to face a firing squad, John approached Sherlock's bedroom door. This was the one room in the flat that he had never entered – in truth he'd not even so much as poked his head round the door.

Now, with his fingers curled around the door handle, he hesitated, good manners warring with curiosity. Part of him wanted him to outright ask his flatmate if there was anything else he should know, but part of him acknowledged that if he did, and Sherlock lied, then he would have given him a beacon-clear warning to be on his guard. No, this was the only way.

The room itself was surprisingly tidy, considering Sherlock's habit of dropping things wherever he happened to be standing when he finished with them and leaving them there. Here one could forgive the higgledy piggledy pile of books on a chair beside the bed – mostly scientific tomes, but there were a few theological texts, which surprised John, but only because the detective was so firmly grounded in logic and had more than once denied any kind of religious belief.

With a mental shrug he moved on to the half open wardrobe. He could see rows of designer suits and shirts; peering around the closed half of the door he found shelves with cashmere jumpers and racks with highly polished shoes. None of this was unexpected, and John was beginning to feel a little foolish. Maybe there was nothing more to know, nothing hidden, but as he turned to leave a box, tumbled beside the bedside table as if knocked off when turning out the lamp, caught his eye.

It was incongruous, and as he squatted down to take a close look John realised it was quite the last thing he would have expected to find in any room in this house, but most especially this one. It was a box of intense black hair dye.

xXx

Closing the bedroom door behind him softly, John stood in the hallway thinking. In every way his friend's room was exactly what he expected it to be, if only he hadn't found that dye. Slowly his feet carried him towards the kitchen, and out of rapidly developing habit he filled the kettle and switched it on.

It was as he reached up into the cupboard for a clean cup that he heard the door open, and the soft steady tread of his flatmate's brother

"Don't you ever knock, Mycroft?" He asked, not turning around but grabbing another cup, and making his unwanted visitor a cup of tea.

"Until you moved in there was never a need"

The cultured tones grated on John's nerves, and he handed Mycroft his cup with a grudging nod towards Sherlock's vacant chair.

"I beg to differ. Your brother's a grown man, not a child that you need to keep checking up on." He lowered himself carefully into his own chair. "So what have I done to warrant your visit?"

"Oh, I just want to see how you are settling in, make sure everything is… okay?"

"Okay? Hardly a word I expect you to use Mycroft, too _pedestrian_ for someone who moves in such exalted circles as you do."

"Sarcasm ill becomes you, Doctor."

"Lying ill becomes you, Mycroft." John replied softly, but there was steel in his voice.

For a long moment the two men stared at each other, Mycroft calculating, John calm and unreadable.

"My brother has tried and failed to co-exist with others since he was sent to Harrow at the age of thirteen, and apart from the boys he had no option but to share a dormitory with, he has succeeded in driving everyone away within days." The elder Holmes studied his nails dispassionately before adding "The record is a fortnight, and that was only because for the first few days the new flatmate was actually abroad at a conference."

"And your point is?"

"What's in it for you, Doctor Watson?" Cold pale blue eyes glared, trying to intimidate and supress.

John smiled.

"Honestly? A roof over my head, a landlady that fusses over us, and…" he paused and stood up, looking coolly down at the older man. "It winds you up which makes Sherlock happy, and a happy Sherlock is less likely to blow the kitchen up. You've outstayed your welcome Mycroft, see yourself out, and I'll thank you to remember your manners and knock next time you want to come in."

With that he moved back to the kitchen and started preparing food. The slamming of the door made him chuckle to himself, Mycroft baiting could be fun, although he wasn't foolish enough to believe that the British Government would leave it at that – he expected retribution.

For now though, he wasn't going to let it bother him, for now he had other things to think about.

xXx

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned the room as he hung his coat on the back of the living room door.

"What did he want?"

John looked up from stoking the fire; by now quite used to the way his flatmate knew whenever his interfering brother had been in the flat.

"He wanted to see how I'm settling in." Standing up he dusted his hands off, resting them on his hips and looking meditatively into the fire. "He doesn't seem happy that I'm here Sherlock, told me all about my predecessors, and how quickly they moved on."

"And?"

"And what?" John spun round to see Sherlock's bright gaze fixed unwaveringly on his face. "You think I'm bothered by that? I was a soldier Sherlock, takes more than a few well-chosen snide comments to deter me from doing what I want to do."

"You sent him away with a flea in his ear!" The younger man announced with a grin.

"Yeah, and with a recommendation to allow you the courtesy of knocking before strolling in." His grin wasn't as bright as Sherlock's. "I doubt he enjoyed the encounter, and I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't find some way to retaliate."

"And he calls me childish."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Good, I've made vegetable biryani." John walked through to the kitchen. "And I've removed the mess your last experiment made on this table so we can sit out here and eat."

"But I said…." Sherlock took a step towards the kitchen and immediately his senses were assaulted by the heavenly smell of baked spiced rice and vegetable. His mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled.

John laughed, and dished out two generous platefuls.

xXx

Sherlock had retreated to his room after dinner, claiming a need for quiet while he filed the results of today's experiments into their respective places in his mind palace. John heard the key turn in the lock – well, that was nothing unusual, his flatmate often took the precaution of ensuring he was undisturbed while he thought.

After a quite check of the papers he noted there was a half decent film due to start soon, and the idea of getting in some beers to have while he watched it appealed. Pulling on his jacket he wandered down towards Sherlock's door.

"I'm popping out to the offy – do you want anything?" he asked through the closed door, but there was no response from inside the room, so he turned away and headed out of the door.

Baker Street was dark and almost deserted, unsurprising in the harsh winter winds. John turned his collar up and hunched his shoulders, stepping up his pace as he turned into the side street.

Passing a narrow alleyway between two houses a hand suddenly shot out and dragged him in, unbalancing him and flinging against a wall.

Even as the air whooshed out of his lungs his took in the situation he now found himself in – in a dark unlit alley with, judging by the shadows, at least three assailants. Army training and natural; self-preservation skills kicked in, and he launched himself at the nearest thug, taking him down with the force of his surprise attack.

The second shadow was larger, and better placed than his colleague, grasping John by the back of his jacket and heaving him off the other man, grabbing him in a bear hug and pounding his ribs with a meaty fist.

Behind John the third man withdrew a sharp blade from his pocket, holding it aloft as he approached the ex-soldier's unprotected back.

From above them came a hoarse throaty cry, and a large dark bird flew down, swooping round and clawing with large talons at the attackers face. The attacker waved his hands, slicing upwards with the knife, John's exposed back momentarily forgotten as the bird attacked time and again, pushing him further into the darkness.

Tuning out the shrieks behind him John pulled on every ounce of his training, trading blow for blow with his opponent until landing the larger man a swift left upper-cut, knocking him senseless.

Not wasting time to draw breath he turned around to confront the third man before his adrenaline crashed. Moving towards him John was just in time to see an unlucky slash of the knife catch the bird's leg, momentarily destabilising its flight. With another hoarse screech it flew upwards, blood dripping down on the dark shadowed alley.

His first mistake was to watch the flight of the injured bird. His second was to underestimate Captain John H Watson.

Making use of the man's momentary distraction John closed the distance between them, grabbing the man's wrist and with a single vicious twist breaking it, the clatter of the knife hitting the ground drowned out by the howl of pain, then two hard and fast punches to the solar plexus put the man down and out.

Bending down to retrieve the knife, John abandoned all thoughts of beer and films – he just wanted to get home and shower off the filth from the alleyway.

Backtracking the way he came, it took less than ten minutes to get back to the flat. Cold and tired, he slowly climbed the stairs, letting himself quietly into the flat.

Following the sound of running water, he made his way to the bathroom, intent on asking if Sherlock was likely to be in there long, but his flatmate had left the door open, and was standing in just his underpants and shirt, the flannel in his hand turning an ominous red as he bathed a ragged cut on his leg.

And all the while he was muttering.

"If only he didn't make me eat, it makes me sluggish…"

John pushed the door fully open, and it banged against the side of the bath making Sherlock drop the cloth and spin around.

"You?" John gasped numbly as realisation hit. "You were the raven?"

**A/N: An offy is slang for an Off-License (Liquor store)**


	2. The Other London Life

There was a wariness in Sherlock's eyes as he met John's stunned stare. Several scenarios flashed through his mind – he could deny it all and blame his injury on carelessness, or he could say an intruder broke in, but the look in the other man's eyes stopped him, because that look was neither fear nor condemnation – it was curiosity and wonder.

He drew in a deep breath, preparing to explain, however John stepped into the bathroom, crowding his space and looking up at him in concern.

"Look it doesn't matter." He said hurriedly. "None of it matters, except that wound on your leg."

"It's not serious…"

"Let me be the judge of that seeing as how, of the two of us, I'm the one with the medical degree." Slipping past his astonished flatmate he pulled the plug in the sink, letting the blood-stained water run away before turning on the taps to rinse the basin and run fresh clean water. "Go lay on the couch, I'll just get the filth from the alleyway out of my hands and have a look at that for you."

Watching for a moment as John turned his back and started to scrub vigorously at his hands, Sherlock quietly turned and limped out of the room.

By the time John had scrubbed up and collected his medical kit from his room, Sherlock was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow and poking at the cut which was still sluggishly bleeding with his free hand.

"Hey, stop that." John chided as he pulled the coffee table close to the couch and sat on in, pulling various items from the army rucksack he had placed next to him.

"It's almost healed." The younger man said sulkily. John raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "Well, it's almost stopped bleeding." He amended.

"That's because you're laying down you berk."

Sherlock huffed and asked "What will you do?"

John peered down at the injury, wiping it gently with an antiseptic swab.

"Well, it's jagged but not too deep, so I'll just pull it together with some steristrips – are your tetanus jabs up to date?" He worked quickly as he spoke, with an ease and confidence that only came with practice.

"About six years ago, before…."

Blue eyes flicked up to meet silver grey, reading apprehension behind the bravado. Placing a hand on his friends arm, John gave a light squeeze and an encouraging smile.

"Okay, that should still be good for a few years yet." He said.

With a few more strips of the sterile tape the wound was closed, and John sat up on the coffee table and stretched his back.

"How did you know?"

Sherlock frowned and gave John an odd look, thrown by the question.

"That I was being attacked?"

"Oh…._oh_! I followed you."

"Why?"

"I was bored. Nothing much else to do when you're sitting on the roof." He said it in such a blasé way that John's head shot up, and as they looked at each other they dissolved into giggles.

"Bloody hell Sherlock," John wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks and gasped for breath. "I'm never sure what you're going to bloody well say next, you git!"

"But it's true!" Sherlock tried to control his grin. "There is rarely anything worth seeing up there most nights, so I thought I'd come along and see what you were up to."

"Great – I have to watch my back against sneaky birds now…"

"Well just remember, this sneaky bird prevented you ending up with a knife in your back."

The smile faded from John face and he looked at his friend with affection.

"Yeah, thanks for that, I owe you one." He started to rise from the table but was restrained by the light grasp of Sherlock's hand on his wrist. He glanced down, and then back, questioningly, into Sherlock's face.

"And I owe you an explanation." The younger man said quietly.

"No, you owe me nothing." John said solemnly, then after moment added cheekily "But you could have introduced me to your alter ego when I first moved in!"

Sherlock slumped back against the cushions, careless of his state of undress, and stared up at the ceiling, seeing not the whitewashed plaster but another room, in another time.

"I know you think you know London John, and as much as any average human being is capable of doing so, you do. You know London life, you see more that most of what it takes to live here, but there is another – a darker London – one that hides itself from the general populace."

John leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, listening intently.

"About four years ago I discovered that I didn't know London as well as I thought I did. I was on the trail of a particularly vicious psychopath called Moriarty, Jim Moriarty. I had persuaded him to meet me."

Closing his eyes Sherlock called forth from his Mind Palace a replay of that day, and in a soft voice recounted a meeting with the criminal mastermind in municipal swimming pool, the one where, as a teenager, Moriarty had committed his first crime, testing out his powers.

Watching his friend, John had a million questions already running around his head, like who was this Moriarty? Why had he never heard of him if, as he was fairly sure had happened, Sherlock had put a stop to his shenanigans? But he held his tongue and waited, there would be time enough for questions.

Continuing his story, Sherlock spoke of what started out as a fairly ordinary meeting, Moriarty jeered and taunted him, trying to make him lose his self-control. He had misjudged his target there Sherlock related proudly, if years of being baited by Mycroft hadn't broken his control, then this twisted little Irishman didn't stand a chance. Sherlock was soon to learn how wrong he had been, and how badly he had underestimated his opponent.

"What happened?" John spoke into the lengthening silence.

Silver eyes flickered open and focussed on the concerned blue eyes watching him.

"I tried to leave, I realised he had no intention of giving himself up so I decided I'd had enough of his puerile wit. I turned around and started walking but…." he frowned, "the next thing I knew I was flying through the air."

"Someone attacked you?"

"Moriarty attacked me. He lifted me in the air and flew me around the room, then set me spinning like a top until I was certain I was going to be violently sick."

"How?" John sounded incredulous. "I mean, that kind of power…."

"Is rare." Sherlock said, sitting up and threading his long fingers through his hair, ruffling it hard and scratching at his scalp.

"Stop that Sherlock." Placing gentle hands on top of Sherlock's he stilled the movement. "If it worries you this much, you don't have to tell me any more of this, it doesn't matter, really."

"Of course it matters!" Sherlock wrenched away, pulling himself off the couch and stalking around the room. "I had no right to let you move in here without telling you – warning you – about….about….."

"No Sherlock, no. This isn't going to happen, I'm not going to let you get wound up about something that is none of your fault."

"But I should have _known_."

John stood up and planted himself firmly in front of the agitated young man, grasping him firmly by the arms and making him stand still. Sherlock looked at him, a stubborn set to his chin, but John just laughed.

"If you think that grumpy look is going to stop me you've got another think coming mate." He pushed, moving the other man towards his chair. "Though if I were you I'd give in before being pushed into that chair hurts your leg."

"You wouldn't."

"No," John admitted. "No I wouldn't hurt you – in any way – and you need to understand that."

Letting go of Sherlocks arms he turned and walked out to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and pulling mugs out of the cupboard before moving to lean in the doorway.

Sherlock had eased himself into the leather armchair, and was staring into empty grate, tension in every line of his slender body.

"Look mate, I meant it you know, you don't have to tell me any more if you don't want to, I won't think any less of you." He paused. "Look at me 'Lock…"

"What did you call me?"

"'Lock. Do you mind?" Returning to the kettle he made the tea and carried it through, handing one to his friend before settling into his own chair.

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock's a bit of a mouthful, and I thought you'd prefer that to Sherly…"

That caused Sherlock's head to turn and look at him.

"And now I have your attention, I'll say this just once more, You don't have to tell me, you needn't put yourself through relating what is obviously a painful memory, but whatever you tell me stays between us."

"I know that John, it's just…I suddenly realised that I have no right to drag you into this…this madness, this other London life."

"Bit late for that. I chase you around the street of this London most nights, do I look like it bothers me? You said dangerous – and here I am."

"Moriarty is …. he's more than just a criminal, more than just a man."

"He'd have to be to set you spinning round a room."

"He calls himself a Magister, a Grand Master of the Black Arts. When he eventually dropped me down he told me this was what he was, and that I had two choices – to join him, or to regret it." Sherlock drew a shaky breath "I told him that nothing would entice me to join him, no threat nor offer would change that fact. He smiled and uttered a string of weird sounds – words maybe, I don't know – and then he walked away, leaving me staring after him."

Cupping his hands around his mug he stared into the warm brown liquid.

"Two nights later I started to feel strange."

"Strange how?"

"Hot, uncomfortable. I couldn't bear to have my clothes on, but even with them off I still didn't feel right."

"And then what?"

"I think I blacked out, but I don't actually know. The next thing I remember was trying to fly through the locked window, I was hitting it, beating at it with…with my wings." He shook his head. "Mrs Hudson very kindly came in when she heard the noise, shrieked a couple of times and opened the window for me."

A smile quirked at John's lips.

"I bet she didn't leave it open for you though, did she?"

For the first time since starting his story a genuine smile lit Sherlock's face.

"No. I found myself naked on the roof in the early hours of the following morning. Fortunately for me my bedroom window, while always closed is rarely locked, so I shimmied bare-arsed down the drainpipe – I believe there's still some of the skin off my knees and toes in the brickwork – and forcing my way into my room."

John lost it. He bit his fist trying not to let the chuckles escape but it was no good. With a snort he flopped back in his chair laughing, and after a moment Sherlock joined in.

"Oh I'd have given good money to see that!" The doctor gasped between fits of laughter.

"Don't even think of locking the windows against me." Trying to sound stern and threatening was difficult when giggling, but Sherlock tried nonetheless.

"Oh, don't think I hadn't thought of it mate – the next time you plant a severed head next to my pasta salad!"

"I received a text from him." Sherlock said when they had calmed down. "Telling me that I would transform randomly, that I wouldn't be able to work because I would never be sure of when I'd change again. So I stayed at home until I could recognise the signs of the change, and the timings."

"But this – it doesn't happen…"

"Yes, it happens regularly, only now I know how to control it. It took me nearly two years, but I learned that I could control it if I forced a transformation on _my_ terms, when _I_ wanted. By doing that the uncontrolled transformations became fewer and farther between, and as long as I don't go for more than a week I know my secret is safe."

John stared at his friend, turning over in his mind the information he had just been given, and Sherlock waited.

"There must be a way to reverse this curse." John said finally.

"There are, it seems, quite a few 'practitioners', but they are known or loyal to Moriarty, they won't help."

"I'll help."

"John, this isn't some illness that you can research a cure for. I've lived with this for four years, I've learned to accept what I am." He laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh. "When Donovan calls me freak she has no idea how close she is to the truth."

"Sherlock, you aren't the only one here who can keep secrets y'know." Seeing that he had caught his friend's attention the older man continued with a smile "You see, I'm not just a doctor, not just a soldier. The family I was born into was part of that 'other London' you talk about – I'm an alchemist."


End file.
